A DOUBLE INHERITANCE IN A SINGLE DAY.
Almost before she asked it, Cleena answered her own question.
"The powder! the powder! It's Fayetty a-meddlin'! Oh, is he killed, the
witless gossoon?"
Then she turned toward the stairway leading into the cellar, and from
whence she had heard the dull roar, and now imagined she saw smoke as
she certainly did smell suggestive fumes. She needed not to descend,
however, for at the stair's head the lad rushed against her, bruising
her with something hard and heavy that he carried, and thus dispelling
her first fear of his personal injury.
"Fayetty--Fayetty! Hold by! What's amiss? What's--"
He deposited a box upon the kitchen table, plump in the tray of
biscuits, and catching Cleena about the waist began to execute a
grotesque dance with her for helpless partner. After a moment she was
able to extricate herself from his frantic clutch and to demand
sternly:--
"Ye omahaun, are ye gone daft?"
"It's money, Cleena Keegan! _It's money!_ The cellar's full of it!
Money, money, money! Chests full, cellars full--oh! oh! oh!"
Then did her eye fall upon the box and the spot where it rested, and
indignation seized her soul. With one grasp of her strong hands she
flung it to the floor, where it fell heavily, cracked, and burst
asunder.
Both were then too astonished to speak. Fayette's wildest dreams had,
evidently, come true. Cleena could not believe her eyes. Never in all
her life had she seen so many precious coins. They were dimmed by age
and moisture, yet, unmistakably, they were of gold, with a few that
might be silver. All the fairy tales of her beloved Ireland rushed
through her mind, and she regarded the half-wit with a new veneration.
"Sure, you're one o' them elf-men, I believe; that different from
ordinary you can even make dollars o' doughnuts. Arrah musha, 'twas a
smart decent day when Miss Amy fetched you home to Fairacres! Sent, was
ye, to make the old family rich; and the marvel o' cure in your long,
lean hands. Troth, I'm struck all of a heap."
But Fayette was not. He had never been so active. He began to gather up
the coins which had been scattered by the breaking of the chest and, for
want of something better in which to store them, pulled Cleena's apron
from her waist and piled them in that. She sat on, silently regarding
him. For a few minutes she honestly believed that he was a genuine
specimen of the "little people" who were said to make green Erin their
favorite home. But when he began to gabble in a hoarse, excited tone of
how he had long been expecting this "find"; how he had watched his
opportunity when all the household should be absent that he might
disobey and use the explosive that would lessen his labor so greatly,
she came back to common sense.
[Illustration: "HE BEGAN TO GATHER UP THE COINS."]
"So you've been lookin' for it, have ye? Well, now you've got it, but ye
might ha' been killed in the job. What for no? With Mister Fred gone to
town an' him tellin' ye most explicit ye should no touch nor meddle at
all. Was aught like this found in either of them mushroom ones?"
"I--don't--know," answered Fayette, slowly, still stooping and tying his
bundle. "If there was--that man's--got it. It was _mine_. _I_ begun the
digging. I--"
"An' he finished, eh? Well, you take up your pack an' put it here in my
dresser. Then go wash your face. Such a sight! Hold, did ye any more
harm there below?"
"Harm! harm! to dig such a treasure as this out of my mine? Well, if I
used only a little bit of powder and got so much, what a lot I might
have found if I'd used more. I'll bet the whole ground is full."
"Oh, ye silly! Put that stuff down. It's makin' ye lose what little
sense you've got. An', me neighbor, look here. See them beautiful
biscuits all spoiled the day, the day!"
This reminded the lad that he was hungry. He had been hard at work all
day in the underground passage, the third and last of those he had set
out to make beneath "Charity House." The first two had been completed,
the walls shored, the rich beds for mushroom-raising made upon the dark
damp floors. Already these beds were dotted with the white growths, that
in a marvellous short time would be full-grown mushrooms and finding a
place upon many an epicure's table.
That very hour, even, Frederic Kaye was in the city negotiating for
their regular sale at profitable prices; and wondering not a little, it
may be, at the strange fact that "Spite House," instead of being the
barren, unproductive spot at first supposed, would prove instead a
veritable mine of support to the whole household. Of that other
"mining," with its anticipated results in gold of which Fayette had
sometimes babbled, Mr. Kaye took no account. Old Jacob Ingraham who
built the house had been a hard, close-fisted man, if all accounts were
true, and not at all likely to deposit his money in the ground, when
there were investments which would help to increase it. But of old
Jacob's wife, history said little, and Frederic never thought.
Fayette placed the apron in the cupboard, as he had been bidden, and
when he would have added the broken box also, Cleena prevented.
"Oh, ye dirty boy! That--that mouldy, muddy, nasty thing! No, no! No,
no!" and she tossed it unceremoniously into the box of kindling-wood.
In the roomy "Dutch" oven in the wall she had baked many of her picnic
biscuits, and she regarded the ruin Fayette had wrought among her
sandwiches with an air absurdly sad.
Now he had no scruples against a bit of dirt, and had already crammed
his mouth full of the broken food, when Cleena looked round and saw him.
His mouth was distended with laughter as well as bread, and this
provoked her still further. Sweeping her long arm over the table, she
brushed all the sandwiches into a big pan that stood conveniently near,
and remarked grimly:--
"Not another bite o' better food do you get till them's all ate."
"All right. I like 'em. But what's the picnickers goin' to do?"
"The best they can. An' you're to help. Go wash your hands."
"I have."
"Again, once more; then show 'em to me."
The lad laughingly obeyed. Then demanded:--
"What for?"
Cleena replied by action rather than word. She tied a fresh gingham
apron about his shoulders and brought the strings around in front so
that his mud-stained clothing was entirely covered. Then she led him to
her kneading-table and set a bucket of sifted flour before him.
"Make biscuit."
"How many?"
"Three hundred. Fall to, measure, I'll count."
She did. For two whole hours the pair labored in that kitchen, Fayette
kneading, cutting out, slipping the pans into the ovens and removing
them; while Cleena spread and cut tongue after tongue, till even more
than the original supply had been reproduced. Then she paused and looked
up.
There stood Teamster John in the doorway, smiling and watching Fayette's
new occupation with genuine surprise.
"Shucks! makin' a cook out of him? Ain't ye rather late with your
luncheon? I drove up to carry the baskets down to the 'Island.'"
"Humph! Ready they was, fast enough. But--man, look here," and she
opened the cupboard door to draw forth the apron of gold.
"No, you shan't! He shan't touch it! It's mine--it's mine!" cried
Fayette, and snatched the bundle from her hands. He had not tied it
securely, and again the long-buried coins rolled into the sunlight and
spread themselves over the floor.
"To the--land's--sake!"
"They're mine--they're all mine--every single one. I found 'em. I
blasted 'em out. Nobody shall touch them--nobody!"
"You--blasted them--out? From the cellar of this house? You--simpleton!"
"Like to ha' done it yourself, hey?"
"No; but I'm sorrier than I can tell that ever you were let to fool with
powder. How'd Mister Frederic allow it?"
Cleena answered promptly, "He didn't. He strict forbid it. Yes, I know,
I know. It was a chance. If me guardian angel hadn't been nigh, you
might never ha' seen old Cleena again. Arrah musha, but I'm that shook
up I'd know! What say? Is it time yet for their supper down yon, or
what?"
"It'll be a little late, maybe, but never mind. My, my! Chests o' gold!
Who'd believe it? Like a story book, now, ain't it? And where, in the
name of common sense, did you get all this flour and meat an' fixings,
Cleena, woman?"
"Mister Fred. The last day he went to town. He was to buy enough for one
picnic, so he brought home enough for two. That's ever his way. He's the
good provider, is Mister Fred. Bless him!"
"Exactly. Well, I'll tell you, it _is_ late, so I'll just drive down to
tell the youngsters they'd better come up here and eat their supper.
They'll be crazy wild for a sight of that chest and what was in it; and
if they don't come to-day, they'll be besieging you all day to-morrow.
When a thing like this happens, it belongs to the town."
"Don't neither; belongs to _me_. I found it. I'll keep it. I dare ye!"
"All right, lad. Don't worry. I wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole.
I've heard of such things afore now, and never once that they didn't
bring trouble. All I'm thankful for is you didn't kill anybody nor smash
up the house with your fool blastin'. You won't get another chance to
try, if I have to come right here and stay myself;" and he smiled
sweetly toward Cleena, who ignored the smile, but agreed with the
suggestion.
"Yes; that's right. That's sense. What for no? Troth, to-morrow's a
Sunday, an' not to be disturbed o' none such havers. What's a bit of old
dollars dug out o' the mud? An' Monday's me wash. Faith, it's sense in
small matters ye're havin', Teamster John. Drive yon an' make haste
back. I'll spread me a cloth on the grass an' each may eat like a
heathen, does he like, that same as he was down in the woods."
"But they shan't touch it--they shan't even see it! It's mine. I'll keep
it, understand?"
Cleena understood not only the words, but the lad with whom she had to
deal.
"Whist, alanna, would you hide yourself, then? Faith, no; run avick. Put
on your Sunday suit, brush yer hair, make yerself tidy, then stand up
like a showman at Donnybrook fair, an' pass the time o' day with who
comes. What for no? The box an' the gold must be showed. Such a thing
can't be hid. Well, then, gossoon, just show it yerself."
So when, not long after, the whole band of merrymakers came trooping
over the knoll of Bareacre, they found not only their belated supper
spread for them, but a sight to amuse their curiosity in the buried
treasure, estimated at various sums by the excited beholders, and with
an ever increasing value as the story passed from mouth to mouth.
"It will belong to 'Bony,' of course."
"No; to the Kayes. He doesn't own the house."
"Nor they. If they did, they wouldn't take it from him. They're not that
sort of folks."
"But they're as poor as anybody now."
"Archibald Wingate owns the property. I should think it belonged to
him."
"The 'Supe' will probably take it in charge."
So the talk bandied back and forth till poor Fayette's weak brain was in
a whirl; and amid it all there was one name that fell upon his hearing
with a sense of pain,--"Archibald Wingate." The man he hated. Well, of
one thing he was resolved--this unearthed treasure might be the mill
owner's, but if it were, he should never, never touch it.
Poor Fayette! So he still stood and proudly exhibited the wonder, and
told over and again exactly how he had long suspected its existence, and
had watched his opportunity, with this result. Since he was happy and
watchful, Cleena felt he was secure--for the present. But all the time
she longed for Mr. Frederic's return, or even for that of Mr. Kaye, who
was abroad upon a sketching ramble. There should be somebody in
authority present, since Hallam and Amy were both too young, and
Teamster John--well, he might "do at a pinch." In any case, he must
remain on guard till a better man appeared.
This better man did arrive, just as the evening fell, in the person of
Uncle Fred, riding up the driveway in old Israel Boggs's farm wagon. Amy
was first to discover their approach and ran gayly to meet them,
beginning her tale of the afternoon's adventure with her very
salutation; but long before she reached the side of the wagon she saw
that something was amiss with her jolly uncle. His face was very grave,
and even his voice was hushed, so that though his greeting to his niece
was even kinder than usual, it startled her by its solemnity.
"Why, Uncle Fred, what is the matter? What has happened?"
"I'll tell you presently. But how come so many here? I thought the
picnic was at 'Treasure Island.'"
She nodded cheerfully to Israel, whose face was even more sad than
Frederic Kaye's, and gave a rapid history of events. Strangely enough,
neither of the two newcomers appeared much interested. It was as if some
greater matter absorbed them, and their manner subdued Amy to silence;
while the farmer tied old Fanny, and then followed his friend into the
front part of the house, quite away from the excited groups surrounding
Fayette and his wonderful exhibit.
Once inside the shelter of the passage, Mr. Frederic laid his hand upon
Amy's shoulder, and said, very gently:--
"Prepare for a great sorrow, Amy dear. I have just come from the
death-bed of our good friend, Adam Burn."
Never till that moment had the girl known how well she loved the saintly
old man. Rarely meeting, he had still exercised over her young life one
of its most powerful influences, and an influence all for good.
"Oh, Uncle Fred, it can't be. It mustn't be. He was so good, so kind,
so--"
"Altogether lovely. Yes, dear, all that. Old Israel, here, needs
comfort. Talk to him a little."
So she led the heart-broken Israel into the farthest room, and sitting
down beside him persuaded him to speak with her of the one that had
passed on, and in the act to find relief. Then she slipped away a moment
and found Hallam, who, when he had heard this later news, quietly
dismissed the club and brought the happy holiday to a reverent close.
"Land! that makes all such ilk," said Teamster John, pointing to
Fayette's glittering heap, "to seem of small account. What's a litter of
gold alongside of such as him?"
And not one among them all who had ever known Adam Burn found anything
now worth discussing save the goodness and simplicity of their dead
neighbor and friend.
But late that night, after Israel had gone back to the desolate Clove,
to make such arrangements for the old man's burial as his friends at
"Charity House" had deemed fitting, Uncle Frederic remarked, casually:--
"By the way, Amy, Mrs. Burn ('Sarah Jane,' you know) told me a bit of
news, to the effect that you are the old man's heiress, because of your
name that was his wife's. She says he gave you a sealed letter before he
left Ardsley, which letter explained everything,--where the will was to
be found, and the few directions necessary for the settlement of the
estate. Your father and I are trustees, she thinks, until you come of
age, but you are the heir. Good night."
"No, no, uncle, I don't want to be! I want nothing that is gained by his
death. And--I lost that letter, anyway."
"Lost it? That's serious. However, it can doubtless be arranged. Good
night."